The driver can feel the wad of cash straining at the cloth of his trousers. He estimates how much he can afford to lose and how much could yield a sizable payout. He decides on a chunk of his savings equivalent to a month’s pay. If he can double that, it will earn him some breathing room, perhaps some extra time playing vigilante, before he has to look for another job. (It could be on a ranch, but not the one he left behind this morning. He knows there will be no good reason for him to ever return. That means to the ranch, to Fresno, or to the state of California.)

Money had been a sore point for the driver and Paula. She accused him of being stingy. She would ask, in a quasi-accented chirp learned from her mother, “What’re you doin with that whole other chunk a yer paycheck, anyways?” The driver would simply shrug her off. No amount of haranguing would make him give away the surprise.

Because of his unofficial employment status working at a junkyard at the time, no jeweler would allow him to pay in installments; so he had to save it all up himself, putting away those sorely-needed three dollars every week into his secure hiding spot. He figured after a year, he would have enough saved up to finally buy Paula an engagement ring.

The driver had put the money aside in the hope of turning a promise –his commitment to Paula- into a reality. That reality was stolen from him in a single gun shot this morning. All he can do now is use that money to honor that promise and avenge Paula’s death. He figures the more of it he can get, the quicker he can put this reality to an end. The risk of loss inherent to gambling suddenly loses its romantic sheen, all-the-while becoming engorged with meaning. When all has been lost, there remains nothing worth gaining. That the driver is able to retain his sense of mission, in the face of a despondency as gaping as death, is a feat in itself.